


The Rooftop Trip

by uglycrow



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Crack, Fracking Ninjas, Gen, Humor, kink meme prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-23
Updated: 2012-05-23
Packaged: 2017-11-05 20:43:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/410828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uglycrow/pseuds/uglycrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In <a href="http://www.johnwatsonblog.co.uk">John's blog,</a> he references a situation during the case of The Geek Interpreter wherein he and Sherlock dress up as ninjas to aid their client. This is how that event played out. Written for my friend <a href="http://221b-hound.livejournal.com">Hound</a>'s kink meme request.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Rooftop Trip

Silence hung heavily in the sitting room of 221B Baker Street for what felt like a small eternity. Sherlock didn't seem particularly bothered by this fact - he rarely seemed much more than half-aware when John was talking anyway - but for John it was a palpable thing, his lips pressed together in a thin line as he tried to choose his words very carefully. It felt important that this was addressed as seriously as possible.

"So," he began, finally tearing through the weight of noiselessness in the room, "What's all this, then?"

Sherlock didn't even glance up from his (or rather, John's) laptop.

"Ninja costumes." A beat, before he thoughtfully added, "Obviously."

Of course. _Obviously._ For a moment John could do little else beyond pinch the bridge of his nose in agitation, letting out a slow push of air from his lungs while cradling his forehead with his fingers. Across the seats and arms of the couch sat the scattered pieces: masks, drawstring trousers, long-sleeved shirts coupled with vests to wear over the top, ridiculous boots, and a small selection of what he hoped to be prop weaponry. It had arrived by post less than an hour ago, and Sherlock had been more than happy to leave the unpacking to his befuddled flatmate. It had been confusing enough removing the items piece by piece; somehow having them all laid out only made it worse rather than better. Sherlock, of course, was being as helpful as ever about the matter, which was to say he was being of absolutely no use at all.

Fantastic.

"Why do we have _ninja costumes,_ Sherlock?" It was hard to keep a note of frustration from creeping into his voice, hand finally dropping away from his face to offer his friend a bit of a Look. The detective remained unperturbed by John's irritation, typing away a moment longer before finally snapping the laptop closed and all but tossing it aside, much to John's distress. (It wasn't as though laptops came _cheap._ ) Finally he rose from his chair to join his colleague in front of the couch with an expression best described as put upon. John rolled his eyes without comment over the display.

"The publishers of KRATIDES broke no actual laws; Lestrade has nothing to charge the company with aside from a slap on the wrist for harrassment, perhaps. They've enough money to throw around that the court struggle would be substantial both in time and expense. Their sales will continue to climb thanks to Melas' mad ravings being plastered all over the internet... So I've devised a stunt of our own to combat the issue." He glanced at John, taking in the perplexed look he sported before letting out a long-suffering sigh. "Since this is _difficult_ for you, I'll explain: We're to engage Melas, who will be dressed as some sort of caped crusader from the 'graphic novels,' as they're apparently called, in a public battle to allow a buzz to be generated. Melas will then reveal himself, as well as the plot used against him for the company's benefit. Should be quite effective in dashing their corporate image."

John didn't reply straight away, arms crossed over his chest while he stared at the outfits laid out for them.

"That is the most ridiculous idea I have ever heard."

Sherlock pivoted to look at him, eyebrows making a brief trip up towards his hairline. He appeared genuinely surprised, as if John should have exclaimed over the beauty of his plan without hesitation. "But it makes perfect sense, doesn't it? Tit for tat? It's quite poetic!" He actually sounded _offended_ over the matter. John took a moment to rub at his temples.

"There's nothing _poetic_ about dressing up like a nutter, Sherlock! Couldn't we just alert the local news, or something? They'd run an article, do all the reputation-ruining for us?"

That earned John a heavy scoff, Sherlock snatching up one of the katanas laid across the back of the sofa to unsheath it. It _looked_ real enough. That was concerning. How much did all of this cost, anyway? "Oh, yes, let's just drop this in the laps of the local _vultures,_ shall we? I'm sure that would just go splendidly, with plenty of injected hyperbole just for _flair_." His voice had risen beyond conversational levels, beginning to reach something closer to 'screaming against a howling gale.' John wisely withdrew as Sherlock began to gesticulate wildly with sword still in hand. "That would fit in just brilliantly with the rest of the rubbish they've got strewn across their filth-laden pages, right next to the woman who found the Virgin Mary in a sodding bag of _crisps!!_ "

The explosive rant hung in the air, leaving a dull ringing in John's ears. Drawing in a cleansing breath, Sherlock plucked up his discarded sheath and slid the katana back inside before straightening the front of his blazer in a way that belied the fact that he had just been howling like a loon over _tabloids._ John marveled only at the fact that, at some point in the past few months, this had become his new version of normal.

Maybe it was time to pop in for a chat with that therapist again.

"We'd best start getting ready," the detective continued at a more managable decible. "We've only two hours until we're to meet 'Latimer' on Shaftesbury Avenue, and it's a bit of a trip."

What about that sounded familiar... Ah. They'd been reviewing the most recent release of KRATIDES the night before at Sherlock's behest; the hero Latimer fought two masked terrorists on Shaftesbury Avenue, driving them off and saving the day, yet again. Was that what this was all about? John toyed with the idea of grabbing his coat and walking out on the whole lark, but they were both acutely aware that he'd do no such thing. A low noise of frustration escaped him before he caved.

" _Please_ tell me we won't be taking the tube over," he begged, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes.

"Of course not," Sherlock sniffed, plucking up his mask from the arm of the couch. "We'll be traveling by rooftop."

John was dully aware that this conversation was frought with long and weighted silences.

"By _rooftop,_ " he finally confirmed, more a statement than a question. "Why are we going to- No." He stopped himself, holding a hand up to prevent his overeager companion from chiming in, "No, I don't even want to know. I don't- Just. Give me my damned costume, before I change my mind."

Sherlock, to his credit, said nothing snide over the matter, simply looking pleased at how easily John relented -- which really was too easily. Is that all it took for him to be swayed? Some exasperating remarks and a bunch of costume bits laid out in front of him? The realization wasn't as staggering as it should have been, really. He'd killed a man without batting an eye within 48 hours of meeting the great Sherlock Holmes; was it any surprise he could talk John into an elaborate game of dress-up? With a final disbelieving shake of his head, he waited for Sherlock to gather up his set of gray and black clothes before gathering them into his arms.

"Right. I'll be upstairs, then. Putting... all this on."

"Hmm." Sherlock's attention had once again been lost as he shrugged out of his blazer, draping it over the back of his chair before setting to work on the buttons of his shirt. No, of _course_ he wouldn't have the decency to change in his own bedroom; why would he? Briefly looking up towards the ceiling as though asking the heavens above for strength, John abandoned the sitting room to the stripping detective, determined to dress himself in as much secluded dignity as possible while gearing up to be a masked terrorist faced against a nerdy teenager in spandex. It took all he had to not reflect on the direction his life was headed in as he went.

Once he really started in on the task, however, he came to learn that dressing one's self as a ninja was not as easy as he'd previously surmised. Who the hell designed this costume, anyway? The trousers were easy enough but the vest wrapped around in a fashion he found more than a little perplexing, and the sash? Why wasn't it just a _belt_ , wouldn't that work a bit better to keep any stealthy assassin from a particularly embarrassing wardrobe malfunction? The whole ensemble just made no bloody sense. Frustration getting the better of him, John left the vest draping loosely on his shoulders while snatching up sash and mask to make his way back downstairs, once again bordering on walking out on this mad caper.

"Sherlock, I don't..."

He froze on the bottom step, trailing off at the sight of a fully-ninjafied Sherlock Holmes complete with with wrap-around vest, silken sash and hooded mask that barely fit over the expanse of his nose, let alone his ridiculous mop of curly hair. For a moment they stared at each other, Sherlock looking vaguely perplexed and John slack-jawed -- before the doctor burst out laughing, the guffaws so great he had to lean against the nearest wall to keep from tipping right over onto the floor. His enshrouded flatmate clearly did not see the humour, straightening up and glaring at the man with obvious disdain. 

"And _what_ exactly is so funny?" His tone was cool at best, arms crossing in a way that could only be described as _haughty,_ which made John's fit of giggles all the worse. He struggled to speak, tears in his eyes.

"You just-" Another choke, followed by a gasp for breath, "You look _brilliant,_ just utterly-" No, seemed talking wasn't going to happen, after all. He sat down on the bottom step and laughed himself silly, completely ignoring the clear ire his fit was earning from his companion. Sherlock soon began to ignore him in a manner that bordered on childishly petulant, setting to a full examination of his katana from hilt to edge in lieu of dignifying the doctor's hysterics with a response. After a good two minutes of gut-busting, eye-watering laughter John finally got ahold of himself, chortles trailing off into gulping breaths of air into his starved lungs.

Sherlock continued to ignore him.

"Oh, come on now," John managed after catching his breath, still grinning despite his attempts at sincerity, "Don't be like that, I was just- You just look so _sharp_ in that, it suits you, it really does! You should dress up like this every day, I think! Go have a scrap with a few pirates to really get into the mood!"

That was apparently enough to earn a reply, however icy. Sherlock half-turned to eye John over his shoulder with disdain, his tone snippish. "There are no _pirates_ in the KRATIDES graphics novels, John."

"No, that isn't what-" He stopped himself; of _course_ Sherlock wouldn't know about the old 'pirates versus ninjas' trope. Even if he'd ever had an opportunity to learn about it John had no doubt it would have been deleted straight away. Rather than waste his time explaining something that wouldn't be understood anyway he waved his hand dismissively, finally getting his laughter under control. "Nevermind, forget it. I just need a hand getting these ties done, if you don't mind."

John earned himself a hard look as Sherlock clearly weighed his options: assist John, or leave him to struggle ridiculously with his own costume since he was clearly in need of the practice. The tug-of-war went on behind his eyes for a moment or two before his sword was finally set aside, freed hands waving John over with an air of impatience. The doctor obliged, closing the distance between them and lifting his arm to give the younger man easier access to the ties of his vest. They were tugged, tied and closed with ease and a projected sense of irritation: _Is it really so difficult to dress yourself, John Watson?_ The sash was then wrapped in place and tied off securely.

"Thanks." Once finished John straighted up, then looked down at himself with a sigh. Well, now they _both_ looked ridiculous. 

"If you're quite finished stalling," Sherlock drawled, picking up a set of nunchaku and dangling it out for John to take, "We've quite a trip ahead of us, as you'll recall. It's best we get started if we're to not miss our cue."

After a brief hesitation wherein John once again reviewed both his life and his choices, he finally took hold of the odd weapon with a face of resignation. There was no reason to even _begin_ to think he had sway in this scenario, or that he wouldn't go along with it no matter how absurd it may be. He'd follow Sherlock to the ends of the Earth... even while dressed up like some crazy Asian assassin, on his way to pretend to fight an even crazier kid dressed up like a superhero. 

Forget reviewing; it was just too depressing.

After a few final preparations (mask adjustments, basic weapon explanation as far as nunchaku goes, more pirate jokes that Sherlock didn't even try to understand) it was time to leave... and begin what was possibly the most utterly _absurd_ trip of John's life. When Sherlock said take the rooftops, he meant _take the bloody rooftops,_ save for those that were just too far apart to jump and thus required a trip across the street with quite a few people staring. And talking. And _taking pictures._ God, at least he had a sodding mask on so no one would see this on the web and ring him to ask about strange new fetishes he might be indulging in. By the time they arrived "on set," so to speak, John was so out of breath he had to stand aside and rest for nearly ten minutes before he could even _think_ of acting like a proper villian; even Sherlock, despite an ego that was enough to keep him on his feet purely out of idiot pride, was in need of some recovery time. John planned to make a point of bringing up this moronic plan anytime the detective had bright ideas that involved rooftops and dumbarse costumes.

They were both lucky the staged battle was short and low on excessive dramatics. Severe heart palpitations were not exactly something John wanted to add to his list of medical emergencies brought on by his association with a brilliant madman; the list was already long enough as it was. A few faked attacks, some melodramatic falls and a number of decidedly cheesy lines from their faux hero was all that was required before the masked pair retreated up a fire escape to sit just out of sight and watch the rest of the show. John found himself still out of breath, yanking his mask down to allow his gasps to come at least a little bit easier. Sherlock did the same, observing the unmasking that occured below them as they were finally allowed to relax.

"Sherlock." John didn't even bother watching the rest of the act play out, leaning his back against the ledge with his arms rested against his knees.

"Hmm?"

"We are never, _ever_ doing something like that again. Understand?"

"Hmm." It was neither a confirmation nor a denial, rather bordering on the edge of non-commital. John considered further argument before simply rolling his eyes and letting it be for the time being, figuring the issue could be tackled should it arose again... which it inevitably would, and he would inevitably be talked into doing it all over again. Why fight fate? Breathing a bit easier, he shifted himself back up to his feet and dusted the gravel from his backside before regarding his friend with a frown.

"Can we at least take the tube home? If I have to hop another roof in my lifetime I think my heart might burst."

Sherlock considered briefly before rising to his feet as well, offering John an almost patronizing pat to the shoulder accompanied by a smirk that seemed specially crafted to ruffle the poor doctor's feathers.

"Certainly, if you're that set on making a fool of yourself in public."

John did a fine job of resisting the urge to clock the man in the face.


End file.
